Blank Pages
by Y. Fish
Summary: Interpretation of a popular theory about Shepherd Book's backstory: how Serenity changed him.


Blank Pages of a Book

General Brooke panted for breath as he crouched behind the bulwark of sandbags. The night was bright with lights that might have come from a carnival: flashes of blue, green, and red splashing on the rocks and scraggly vegetation that grew in the desert valley under the dew drops of stars anointing the black sky above. He watched the razor-boomerang shape of an Alliance fighter—angels, he remembered they were called—scream overhead. It disappeared, and Brooke heard the dull thudding of gunfire in its wake. Brooke winced at the noise, followed by the pulsing charge of an Alliance stationary gun that had no doubt fallen into rebel hands. The howling crash came soon after. Under his breath, Brooke cursed the recklessness of the angel's pilot. He should never have flown that low, that close—others were getting reckless, too. A whisper had been winding through the troops that Serenity would be the death of them all, that every last one of them would gasp their dying breaths through the smothering sand of this godforsaken valley. Brooke didn't hold with that line of thought. Once you resign your life, he often said, you might as well have signed your own death sentence: it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

General Brooke could sense that resignation in the slipping control he had over his troops. His orders to them might as well have been suggestions, but what could he do? Practically stranded, locked in a stalemate battle that had limped on for weeks longer than the projected swift victory, living on dwindling rations, fighting with low ammunition, stretching medical supplies thin over a teeming host of the mortally injured and adding more every day to the mounting piles of the dead, what general could hold any sway over his troops?

The radio beside him buzzed to life, spitting out the mechanical voice of a Central Command lackey. Brooke laughed once, a laugh like a bullet—what point was there in Central Command dispatch now?

"Central Command, this is Central Command contacting General Seamus Brooke at Serenity Valley Command Center 07. General, do you copy, over."

Brooke took the radio mouthpiece in his hand, covering one ear to drown out the sound of machine gun fire. "General Seamus Brooke, Commanding Officer Serenity Valley speaking, I copy. Though CC should know that Command Center 07 met a firey end by in a Browncoat bombing earlier this evening and that our new headquarters is this radio, two folding tables, some charts and a handful of shivering officers cooped up behind a pile of sandbags. The men have affectionately dubbed it the Summer Home, over."

The Central Command man made no response to the take of the bombed-out base. Brooke hadn't expected him to. "General Brooke, you are commanded to report immediately to the site of Command Center 07 for extraction. The Independents have surrendered and your presence is requested at the peace negotiations, over."

Brooke's eyes widened. The noise of battle around him grew silent to his ears. "Then… the battle's over?" For the first time in days, the tired wrinkles on Brooke's face relaxed, and he was slowly overcome with the luxury of a smile.

"All official conflict with the Independents is over, General. A cease-fire has been issued on all fronts. The Alliance has won this war, over."

Brooke took a deep breath and looked up at the stars. "Thank God," he whispered. "Thank… God."

"General Brooke, you must report immediately to the site of Command Center 07 for extraction, over."

Brooke quickly punched the comm button—"With respect, CC, I will remain here with my troops and subordinate officers until general extraction, over—" Brooke covered the mouthpiece of the radio and shouted to the heavens and the earth and any poor soul within earshot. "The war is over! We won! Everyone, we're going home!"

Weary heads bobbed over the banks of sandbags, faint echoes of Brooke's words bouncing between them. The rumor of that taboo—"peace"—climbed louder, rustling through the burnt valley like a rain-bringing wind. Finally, one faraway cry punched through the din of a dying battle, and the valley erupted in cheers.

Brooke, who was standing with his arms raised, shouting the joy of his tired, scarred men, heard the static crackle of the radio hissing under the celebration. He reached for the mouthpiece. "CC, please repeat, over," he laughed.

"Negative, General Seamus Brooke. You are to report to Serenity Valley Command Center 07 and be extracted immediately."

He furrowed his brow and plugged an ear to the shouts around him. "What? When will the troops be taken home?"

The answer might have come from a machine. "Serenity Valley Alliance Forces are to remain stationed at their current location and hold position until further notice, over."

Brooke choked over his words a moment before they found his voice. "Hold position?" he spat. "CC, we've got no food, no ammunitions, and an overflowing infirmary full of men who will _die_ if they don't get real medical attention as soon as possible. Troop extraction cannot wait!"

"General Brooke, while the Alliance appreciates the sacrifices of its armed forces, its official opinion is that no action be taken regarding troop movement until after peace negotiations are finalized." Brooke could hear breathing in the silence over the radio transmission. "General, you are an influential man in this army and this government. You can leave them now, and let some of the wounded die, or you can refuse attendance at the peace conference, be stripped of your rank, and let thousands more be killed in the next generation of civil war. We need this peace, General. For the greater good." There was a silence. "It's what we've been fighting for, isn't it? …over."

Brooke stared at the radio mouthpiece in his hand. He stared at the ground under him, at the dirt hard-won by the blood of the young men and women he had trained and commanded. What was this valley, after all? Brooke brushed away the chatter of strategic statistics that fluttered that fluttered to his mind at first. What was this valley? It was dirt, rocks, and scrub brush, half-buried now in young, fit soldiers… children once… blown to pieces. It wasn't a valley of serenity. Serenity was… was peace.

"All right," he said, still staring at the ground. "I'll… I'll go. I'll negotiate peace… over."

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The image reflected in the sleek glass of the conference table turned Brooke's stomach. He watched the stretched, inverted, half-ghost images of bland, smiling Alliance higher-ups shaking hands with the tired Independent leaders—they looked all the more washed-out for the uniform Alliance grey that had replaced the war-dusted Browncoat outfits. In all his days, Brooke would never see a face so unbearably tragic, so stained with the ashamed shadow of defeat, as those forced smiles of the failed insurrectionists turning over their cause and their friends to the cool, gloved hands of the government who cornered them into peace. All around, reporters snapped pictures of the historic moment.

After the hubbub was over and done, Brooke remained at the conference table alone, turning his clean, crisp, plastic nametag over in his hands. _General Seamus Brooke, Alliance Armed Forces General, First Class_. The letters of the words blurred together as his eyes unfocused, and he saw in that glass the ghosts of the soldiers who had stared up at him in silence as the Alliance transport ship raised him high above the dirt of Serenity. First Class.

He turned the tag face-down on the table, and walked away, in search of serenity.


End file.
